


Blue Moon.

by Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels), valuna



Category: RPF - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Werewolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-23
Updated: 2005-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-03 06:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels, https://archiveofourown.org/users/valuna/pseuds/valuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orlando Bloom is a curator at an art museum. Christian is in charge of the security of Orlando's latest exhibit. But Christian doesn't know that Orlando's a werewolf...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Moon.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is violent and gory and does not have a happy ending. Be warned.

His office has a window, and it looks out on a nice slice of New York, but Orlando can stand with his eyes closed and know exactly where the moon is on the horizon. It'll be full in another 24 hours. He turns away from the window and back to his work.

Orlando leans over the conference table, examining sketches and making notes. There's a new exhibit being installed next week whether or not the moon rises, and he needs to put finishing touches on the installment blueprints. After all, medieval and Renaissance need at least a few feet of breathing space between them.

Christian hovers in the door for a brief moment before knocking on the door. "Dr. Bloom?" He's in charge of security for the new exhibit and he needs Orlando's latest thoughts on where things will go.

Orlando looks up in the split-second before the voice registers. "Bale," he says, reminding himself of who the young man is. Security. "I won't be here much longer." He knows the staff, or most of them, think he keeps strange hours. "Just working through some final schematics."

"That's what I want to talk to you about." Christian walks in and looks over the plans. "Need you to run through them with me so I can guarantee that we can keep everything safe." Orlando does keep strange hours, yes, but Christian's not going to mention it. Orlando has every right to do it. It's just something strange, and he doesn't like things that are strange. They put him on alert.

"Of course, you would need to know that." Orlando's brilliant, but his mind is elsewhere tonight. He rubs his hands over his face. The moon's tug is creeping into his mind. "It shouldn't be too difficult. I know the most valuable pieces are traveling with their own guards, but you'll be in charge of them."

"Their own guards, their own security. Some with more security than the president." Christian rolls his eyes. He doesn't understand why people like to steal art. He likes art. He likes to look at it. He was overjoyed when he got a job here. He doesn't understand why anyone would want to deprive the public a chance to look at it.

"The armor alone is worth more than the president." Orlando smiles. "But if the Secret Service asks, I didn't say that." He pulls out a piece of paper from the pile. "Here's a rundown of what's coming and where it'll be put. We'll be using the transitional gallery, so there's only the main entrance in and out. That should make it a bit easier on us."

"Only one place to watch," Christian agrees. Well, that and the emergency exits, but those are rigged with alarms. He'll believe that the armor's worth more than the president. You can always elect a new president. You can't go back in time and make more highly detailed armor.

"The jewelry will be in individual cases," Orlando says, pointing to another piece of paper, the floorplan of the gallery. He's marked it with red squares where the installation will go. "Here and here. And in-between them --" He pauses, rubbing fingers over his temple. The headache's coming. He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and runs his hand through his thick black hair. "Um, there will be two statues."

"Okay. Which ones?" Christian puts his fingers on the floorplan and visualizes how that will look. "And how tall are they?"

"They haven't sent the details on that. Names, I mean, but I know they're each about six feet high." Orlando loses focus for another moment. The moon, the proximity of a human. "I should have that tomorrow." _Fuck. Tomorrow. The moon rises full._

"Six feet high. Statues." Christian nods. "We'll have to rework some things with the infrared sensors to make sure that they don't set it off the first night." He turns to look at Orlando, and for the first time he notices his discomfort. "Are you alright?"

"Just a headache. Front moving in triggers the wrong nerve endings." Orlando delivers the lie with a patented ease. He's been telling it for decades, so it should be simple. He's surprised Christian noticed, or asked. Most don't bother. "Thank you for asking."

It's Christian's job to notice, but he doesn't say that. "You're welcome." Christian turns back to the plans. "What are you going to have on the walls? What are the mediums?"

"Repainting them basic beige, so we can stencil in the information in black." He wonders if Christian's interest is more than security. Orlando pulls out paint swatches. "The painters will be working tomorrow on that. Our crew so you know them all. There are a half dozen oil paintings coming that will have to be hung."

There's something about oil paintings that Christian loves. He's not sure why, but he loves them. "Great." He stands up. "Anything else I should know? Which garage will they be using?"

"Bays three and four." The headache's getting worse. _You didn't miscalculate. You couldn't've._ Orlando leans against the table, closing his eyes and breathing out. _Get yourself out of it._ "Christian, if you don't mind, my head is starting to split." It's not an inaccurate description. "If we could continue this conversation tomorrow morning, I'd appreciate it."

"No problem." Fuck, Orlando looks terrible. Christian frowns. "You want to cut out early?"

"Yes. I believe I need to leave. I'm really not enjoyable to be around when the headache comes." Orlando grimaces. It's coming on too quickly. "Would you mind calling down to the desk and telling them to have my car brought up?"

Christian shakes his head. "Look at me."

Orlando turns his head slowly. His brown eyes are edging on black, with the flicker of green-gold in the pupil. "Did I not make myself clear?" he asks, enunciating every syllable. "My car, Christian."

Holy shit. No one's eyes should look like that. Christian swallows. "You don't look so well. Let me drive you home."

_Say no, Orlando. Don't even think of what he doesn't realize he's offering._ "That's really unnecessary. The driver can take me. And I wouldn't want to take you away from your work early."

"My work is security." Christian crosses his arms. "The driver won't see you inside. I will." He wouldn't normally do this, but there's something about Orlando. There's always been something about Orlando.

Orlando would argue. He _should_ argue. Except his head is throbbing and he's running the risk of not getting home in time to counter the effects of the moon's shift. "All right," he says after a long silence. "I will allow you to escort me home."

So formal. Christian smiles. "Kind of you. So wrap these up and let's get you into bed."

"They're fine where they are. I'll lock the office and no one will bother them." Orlando knows no one comes into his office. Either it's too sacred a space. Or they're just scared. He roughly stacks the papers and turns back to his desk, picking up his laptop case, already packed up -- actually never unpacked for the day. "I'm ready."

Christian shakes his head. "Give me the combo. I'll lock them up." He doesn't take risks. Ever.

"You take your job seriously. That's admirable." Orlando recites off a series of numbers for the keypad lock to the safe. Christian's puzzling, he thinks, much more interested in the intricacies of the museum's workings than any security guard he's ever met.

"Thanks." Christian opens the safe and puts the papers away safely. He closes it and makes sure it's shut. "Where do you live?"

"77th and Central Park." Orlando's long past trying to impress people with where he lives. Yes, it's the Dakota, one of the most prestigious addresses in New York. And, yes, he owns the upper-floor apartment. It's a home, one of several around the world.

_He lives there and he still works here?!_ Christian covers his shock with a very fake cough. Right. So Orlando's independently wealthy. Somewhat surprising, but it shouldn't phase him. "Okay," Christian says finally. "I can get you there."

Orlando heads toward his office door while Christian finishes putting the papers into the vault. _You've misjudged, Orlando. The moon's rising tonight._ He puts his fingers to his temple again, pressing the pain back in. It can't be. He has the phases calculated to the second. It has to be something else. "Service elevator?"

"If you'd prefer." It's out of the way and would attract much less attention. Christian nods. It makes sense. Orlando looks like he could use some peace and quiet. _Maybe it's the new exhibit. It's a big deal._

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The drive's quiet, Orlando laying his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. It's late enough there's little traffic. The Dakota's doorman is cordial, as usual, and as the elevator opens onto the vestibule of his apartment, Orlando's starting to wonder if he's going to shake his new protector before sunrise.

Christian isn't going to leave until he's sure that Orlando can manage. He's not fooling himself that this is still just 'part of the job'. He's just concerned, that's all. Anyone would be. He looks around as he walks into Orlando's place and can't help but gape. _Fuck._

Orlando's watching Christian's reaction. It's always the same from people who've not seen the apartment before. It's eclectic, modern and medieval all in one. The fireplace is granite, the wall of water over it flowing as Orlando flicks a switch on the column to his right. Another flick and lights come on along the walls. The paintings are da Vinci and Monet, the sculptures Calder and Rodin.

"Would you like a drink?" Orlando moves across the room, quick and with purpose, taking a bottle from the bar cabinet. He swishes the amber liquid before pouring a small amount into a glass. He drinks it, small sips, letting it caress his tongue as it melts down his throat. _Calm yourself, Orlando. The elixir will soothe, quench for the moment the pain in your head._

Christian can't stop gaping. Dear god, Orlando doesn't even have to work in a museum. He practically fucking lives in one. "Yeah. Drink. Sure." Might help make some of this more normal.

"Do you have a favored poison? Or just whatever I put my hand on?" Orlando half-turns. Christian's still in the awe phase. "The couch is usable, Christian. Not an heirloom." Actually, it's brand-new, leather against a chrome frame, a bit high-tech but it blends well with the glass table.

Christian looks at the couch and swallows. Not a work of art, but it looks brand new. He sits down on it nervously. "I like scotch."

"Scotch. That I can do." Orlando pulls out the bottle of Macallan and fills a crystal tumbler. He walks over to the couch and hands it to Christian before sitting down on the opposite end of the couch. "You are taking the parameters of your job beyond the call of duty, Mr. Bale. I trust you I am fine now." He sips at the liqueur, its licorice-flavored magic working against his headache. "My head is not throbbing quite as intensely."

Christian doesn't doubt that the scotch is one of the best. Everything else about the man is, and Christian doesn't think even Orlando's drinks would be subpar. "Are you sure? Do you get migraines?"

There's an inclination to laugh, but Orlando suppresses it. "Migraines? The kind of headache that splits your brain and alter your personality? I suppose I do."

Christian frowns and sips the scotch. Fuck, yes, just as good as he'd thought it would be. "Are you on any kind of medicine for them?"

"Homeopathic remedies," Orlando says after a long pause, thinking how best to describe the drink in his hand. "I don't like modern medicine and its dependency on pharmaceuticals." He smiles. "Anyway, they're not that often. Once a month perhaps." _When the light of the moon is rising full._

Once a month sounds reasonable, but Christian has a cousin who gets mind-splitting headaches and he knows second-hand how bad it can be. "You should really see a doctor about that."

"I have." _What you might consider a witch doctor._ "My family is strong on natural therapies." Orlando finishes the liqueur, smiles over the edge of the glass. "You seem awfully concerned, Christian, about my headaches, my general wellbeing." _You should be concerned about yours._

All right. His funeral. Christian finishes off his drink. "Promise me that if they get worse, you'll see someone?" Christian doesn't trust natural therapies. He thinks they're bullshit. Medical science has come a long way. No one's bleeding sick people out in an attempt to cure them anymore. "I don't want you getting sick."

Orlando leans over, sets his glass on the table and moves closer to Christian, all in the blink of an eye. "Why?" He's genuinely curious why this man would care about him. Few do. Outside his own kind, his family. "Tell me, Christian, why did you want to bring me home?"

Christian pulls back. It's instinctive. Someone gets close and he pulls back. Have to be able to see who he's talking to. "I'm just concerned. It's my job." It's a lie and he knows it, but there's no way for Orlando to.

"Your job is to protect the museum and its contents." The move back doesn't go unnoticed, but Orlando doesn't press. He speaks in very specific language, soft and clear with each word. "We are not at the museum, so your job would not extend here. Yet you _are_ here, and you seem to have no interest in leaving with any haste."

Christian winces. Orlando's very right. But something in him doesn't want to leave. He's not comfortable here, not really, but he wants to stay. He's not sure why. "You're right," he whispers. "I should go."

"Yes, you should." Orlando settles back, leaning against the couch, his neck on the leather. "But I doubt you will. You want to stay." He says it with nearly no emotion. It's a statement of fact. Orlando stretches his legs out under the glass-top table. "I won't stop you, either way."

Now, that's awkward. Christian swallows hard. "I...I..." he doesn't know what's going on. He stands up. "I should go."

"Thank you, then, for seeing me home, Christian," Orlando says, drawing in a long breath, holding it for a six-count before exhaling. "I shall see you in the morning, then, I suppose." He isn't going to make overtures about Christian staying. It's too dangerous, for both of them.

"Okay." Christian puts his hands in his pockets and mentally berates himself for being an idiot. "I'll see you tomorrow. Hope you're feeling better." He walks over to the door, but can't resist one last look back.

The headache's gone, but the elixir did nothing to stop the inevitable. Orlando can feel the change coming. He's miscalculated by nearly a full day. _Stupid. Too wrapped up in this new exhibit._ He stretches, flexing his fingers, feeling the growth creep from palms to knuckles to nail beds. Bones lengthening, claws nudging at flesh.

Orlando looks fine, but...something...Christian stares, jaw dropping open. _Oh fuck._

There's a gasp, small but audible -- even if it were silent, Orlando thinks he could hear it. He pulls himself from the couch, stretching his arms out in front of him as he turns toward the door. "I thought you were leaving, Christian," he says, grinning, teeth bared, canines longer.

_Holy fuck, what is he?_ Christian rubs his eyes and backs up against the door, not thinking to open it. Fuck! _He looks like something out of a B-movie..._ The wolfman. Werewolves of London. "I-I...don't eat me!"

Orlando laughs. "Not all in one bite." He cocks his head, rolls his neck. "But it is a possibility before the night's over." His hair is longer than a moment ago. He shakes it out. "I miscalculated, by nearly a day. The moon's rising full, I'm turning and you're staying."

Oh god oh god oh god. This can't be happening. Christian pinches himself. _Wake up, wake up. You have to wake up._ He's in a bad dream. The man he's been...this isn't happening. This isn't happening!

The reaction's natural, for a human. Orlando walks across the room, slow for him, until he's standing in front of Christian. He dips his head, smells along Christian's neck. "You're afraid of me. That smells delicious." He comes close enough to lick, but he doesn't. "You want me, don't you?"

"No!" Okay, so that's a lie. But it's true. He _was_ attracted to Orlando. That's changed. "No, go away! Let me go!"

"No one's stopping you, Christian," Orlando says, nearly purring the name, provided wolves could purr. He takes a half-step back. The change is quickening, his claws extending and his bones shifting. Soon he'll be near full wolf. And it won't matter if Christian wants him or not.

Christian can't move. It's the worst kind of paralysis, the kind they told him about in training. Fear takes over your mind. Christian swallows hard. No. He refuses to believe it.

It's a fear Orlando knows, understands quite well. He circles Christian, pausing behind him. "Do you like to be touched?" Orlando touches his finger to Christian's wrist, rubs in a small circle.

Christian tries to push him away. He does try. But his arms aren't obeying him. "No," he whispers. "No."

"Methinks he doth protest too much." Orlando leans in, pushes the collar of Christian's shirt down with his free hand, fingers of his other hand tightening in a circle around Christian's wrist. He kisses the exposed flesh, letting his sharp canines graze. "Why did he bring me home? Why stay? I think Christian wants more than he's admitting."

No. Well, yes. But he never thought he'd get a werewolf. He never thought Orlando was some kind of _monster_. Christian tries to get away. Orlando shouldn't be touching him. Not when he can feel the teeth and the claws. No. "Don't! Stop! Please!"

One of the most delicious aspects of being on the edge is the control. It's tenuous, and Orlando's holding on by a thread. "Don't. Stop. Words separate mean this, together mean that. I choose to believe you mean the latter." He sinks a canine into Christian's throat and drags it backward, cutting a thin stripe of flesh, letting the blood flow. His hand slips unnoticed down Christian's arm and over his hip, palming over the obvious bulge in the crisp, pressed uniform trousers. "Pleasure before pain?"

_He's going to kill me._ Sudden clear thought. "Stop, please." He doesn't know how Orlando can believe he wants this. He doesn't. Doesn't want anything. Doesn't want the pain, doesn't want those flashes behind his closed eye-lids. "Stop, please!"

"Too late." Orlando hisses out a breath and brings up his hand to circle Christian's throat. "You're going to die tonight, Christian. It can be good. Or it can be bad. I'll give you the choice."

"Good." It comes out as a whisper. Please. No more pain. No more...no more. "Please, Orlando. I-please don't hurt me."

Orlando slowly draws his hand off Christian's throat. "I can give you immense pleasure, Christian, if you but want it." He licks over the trace of blood. "Have you ever been with a man?" He laughs at himself. "well, I'm not technically a man. I'm a werewolf. But the mechanics are the same."

Oh, god. Somehow it makes it all so much more real to hear Orlando say that word. Werewolf. He's a wolf. Not human. _Oh, god, I'm going to die._ "Yes. Have." He'd hoped to be with Orlando, but not like this. Never like this. Not in his scariest nightmares did he ever dream of something like this.

"Then this should be easy." Orlando slips around to stand in front of Christian, dragging his hand down Christian's arm until their fingers are twined together. It's almost romantic, in a death waiting on the moors sort of way. "Come. Bedroom." He steps backward, leading Christian through the furniture without looking, moving to the bedroom. "Perhaps I shouldn't kill you. I could keep you instead." He grins, flashing sharp teeth. "If you please me."

Oh, lord, no. Christian can't imagine it. But he can't refuse. Not yet. Not when, oh, fuck, Orlando has _fangs_ and _claws_ and oh god oh god oh god. Humor him, Christian, and die like a man.

The bedroom's dark, lit only in shadows of lamps covered in Tiffany glass shades. "Strip, Christian. Out of the clothes. Now. Or I'll do it for you." Orlando walks across the room to the large armoire against the wall and begins undressing. He has no fear of turning around and Christian not being there. There's no danger of the human leaving. Where would he go?

Christian wants to run, but he knows he can't. He's seen how fast Orlando is. There's no way in hell that he's faster. He pulls at his clothing, trying to get them off. This way's easier than any other way. Better to go gently.

Orlando's naked in a human heartbeat, and he's stretching languidly, arms reaching high, higher than a mortal should, every line of his body accentuated in the pull of muscle. He's just starting to make the change. The wolf won't come out for hours yet. He shakes his head. "Not very eager, are you?" He stalks over to where Christian is fumbling with his clothes and draws a finger down Christian's cheek. "I promise you, the sex will be incredible."

Christian tenses even more. What's incredible to a fucking werewolf? Will he kill him, skin him alive, string him by his fingernails? Christian wets his lips. "Wh-whatever you want, Orlando." Just please don't make it hurt too much.

"What I want, Christian," Orlando says, pulling out the name till it's disappearing into the air, "is you naked and writhing on my bed in pleasure." He's thinking more and more about not killing the human, of letting him live to see the sun rise.

Pleasure. Pleasure, not pain. Christian relaxes just a little. "Okay. I can...how do you want me?"

"Hmmm, on your back, dear. Want to kiss you while I'm inside you." Orlando steps back. "Finish stripping while I get some things." He grins, almost a smirk. "You do want lube, I assume."

"Uh. Yeah. If you want to." He's not going to presume, but, fuck, lube would make it all easier. Christian gets on the bed. He'd prefer to be on his front, but Orlando gets what he wants.

Orlando watches, retrieves what he needs from the nightstand and tosses it onto the bed near the pillows. "You're beautiful," Orlando says, crawling onto the bed, up between Christian's legs, "for a human." He licks Christian's inner thigh, long and drawn out swipe of tongue from knee to groin crease.

"Uh. Thanks." Christian thinks he's getting better at keeping the terror from his voice, but fuck it. If Orlando's really a wolf, he can probably smell it. Christian heard that on the Discovery channel. It doesn't help that Orlando's tongue doesn't feel good against his skin. But it doesn't hurt either and Christian clings to that. He's not hurting anymore.

Every nuance of Christian's emotions assaults Orlando's brain. The slight edge of fear. That's intoxicating. The resistant arousal. That's annoying. Orlando likes being wanted. He kneels up suddenly, wraps his fingers around Christian's cock. "You don't want me, Christian? I'm not attractive." He dips his head, more flexible than a human, sucks at the tip of Christian's cock, demanding it harden under his tongue.

Fuck! No no no no no. He can't get hard. He can't want this. More wrong than anything in the entire fucking world. "Very attractive," Christian says, biting back a stammer. Orlando's gorgeous. But he's also not fucking human!

"If I were human, you wouldn't think twice about this." Orlando strokes Christian's cock, flicking his thumb over the tip, squeezing. He reaches over, grabs the lube and pops the cap, slathering it over his fingers. "You'd beg for more." Then he rubs his fingers against Christian's hole, pushing in slowly as he nudges the human's legs up.

That's very true, Christian has to concede. He would. But Orlando's not human and Christian isn't going to pretend that he is. Because he isn't. But he'll do what he can. He forces himself to relax, to let Orlando fuck him and not tense up. He'll do it to survive the night.

A new sensation washes over Orlando, a sense of ease in Christian. "Better." He works his fingers in deeper, twisting with a decided harshness. "Let yourself enjoy it, Christian. Trust me. It _will_ be good."

Fuck! Bastard. Harsh isn't good. Not when he knows that Orlando's fingernails are claws and that they can rip him apart from the inside. This isn't going to be good. No matter what Orlando does, this isn't going to be good.

Harsh works its way into werewolf gentle, Orlando keeping his claws as he drags back over the prostate. "Don't worry, pet. Don't want to hurt you yet." He pulls his hand out and lines up his cock against the hole. "I think you can handle it." He jerks Christian's legs up as he shoves his cock in, slow and solid thrusting forward.

The 'yet' doesn't do anything to make Christian relax. It just makes it all clearer. Orlando's going to rip him to pieces and there is absolutely nothing Christian can do about it. It's not going to be gentle and it's going to literally kill him. _This isn't how I wanted to die. This isn't how I die._

"You think I'm going to kill you. I was." Orlando pushes in all the way, thick cock demanding Christian's body open wider. The wolf wants out, and Orlando swipes his tongue over canines. He can feel the muscles ripple across his back, the change creeping over him. A deep breath, cleansing, fighting it back another moment. "Then I changed my mind. Might change it back."

Christian really doesn't like that look in Orlando's eyes. Means something's going terribly wrong. He's going to kill him. He'll change it back. Christian closes his eyes tight. He doesn't want to watch his own death.

Orlando lets his claws out and rakes a long taloned nail down the center of Christian's chest, enough to scratch and nothing more. "Don't." He pulls back, cock nearly out. "Close." He scrapes again. "Your." Then there's the shove forward. "Eyes."

_No!_ Christian saw that. He saw it. Orlando's...Orlando's a motherfucking wolf! Christian closes his eyes immediately after opening them. No fucking way is he going to watch his own death.

The wolf gets angry faster than the human component of Orlando's brain, and Christian won't open his eyes. "You know what, Christian. I've changed my mind again. I'm so sorry." Orlando lets his claws extend fully, increasing the pressure he puts on Christian's flesh, inside and out, cock pumping into the fragile human body even as Orlando yields to the change, lets the wolf take over. He digs a talon into Christian's neck, cuts a path across, left to right, and then back again, right to left, over and over, watches the blood spurt and gurgle and coat the human's flesh. "I _really_ did think about keeping you. It's just--" He fucks Christian harder, each thrust more brutal as the human jerks, convulses, works its way to death. "I'm a werewolf, and the moon's full and, most of all, you wouldn't open your eyes."

The pain is excruciating. Blinding white light behind Christian's eyelids, and he can't hear what Orlando's saying anymore. He can't hear anything but a sharp roaring, like whistling wind in his ears. It's pain incarnate and Christian screams until he can't anymore, until he can't even breathe. _I'm sorry, mama, I'm so sorry._ He shouldn't die like this. It's not right. It's not fair.

Orlando shouts, drowning out Christian's screams, blending with them until there's nothing but pure white noise in the room. He fucks, tearing into Christian's flesh, shredding human chest with sharp talons until his hand, its fine layer of fur soaked in blood, wraps Christian's cock. "Come, fool. You could've lived, been mine." He tugs, jerks the white spurts of a dying man's come out of the swollen cock, pumps himself faster into Christian's arse until he's coming himself, with a whimper. "Stupid human."

The body's warm beneath him as Orlando pulls out, crawls back off the bed. He pads across the bedroom, wolf form taking over, dropping to hands and knees and transmuting out of anything remotely human as he moves quickly through the open French doors onto the apartment's rooftop patio. The moon is bright, dripping orange as it nudges its way onto the horizon over the trees. He looks back, Christian's body still jerking, involuntary twinges of a mortal life he cannot hang onto, and Orlando howls.


End file.
